


i'll make it right for you (i'll do whatever it takes)

by rad_sad



Series: i'm dedicating every day to you [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Daddy Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Here I Am Again, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, One Shot, hamilton is a redcoat, hamilton is younger, making everyone i love suffer, when will i write a story without everyone being in pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rad_sad/pseuds/rad_sad
Summary: home is where the heart is





	

**Author's Note:**

> some time ago i asked myself "hey what if alex was a captured redcoat and he gets told to kill washington on the shly" and i was like "wow that's actually a good idea"
> 
> so here we are and there it is

**ii.**

George had stared at the end of a loaded gun pointed towards him before.

He had seen the sun glistening against the metal, the circle of death's eye winking at him. He always wondered how it would feel, to be shot in the chest or neck or head. He would have to be quick, quicker than the man who would be pulling the trigger. One second too late, and he would be dead. One second too early, and he would be dead. There was a moment that was just perfect, when the man would shift the weight of the gun, loosen his grip on the trigger due to the sweat covering his skin. It was only then could George take the opportunity to strike.

Only this time was different.

His hat was still in his hand, having to be ready to place it on his desk, and the door wasn't even closed behind him with a cool breeze drifting in, waves rushing over the exposed skin of George's neck, the sweat sharper than ice. Never had the world seemed so quiet, not when he was only two feet past the door frame, tired and shoulders slumped; it seemed as if nothing else existed but the glance of the gun. Nothing else mattered but the gun and bullet hidden in it.

And Alexander.

 _Oh, Alexander_.

The boy's face was like stone, lips pursed with the sweat glistening on his skin from the single candle, the orange glow casting shadows across the room. Brown curls were plastered against his temple, hair a ratty nest of knots. The boy looked pale, sickly almost, and if it were not for the shaking of the gun in his hand, George would have thought he was calm. George stared back into Alexander's eyes, unblinking and heart in his throat; the wind howled outside, the low rumble of chatter from the men outside who had no idea that their general could die at any moment. George was half tempted to shout for help but knew doing so would only result in a bullet in his heart. He had to be careful, one misstep, one mistake, and he would be dead.

His mind was reeling, trying to think of how it led to this, trying to cover his steps to see how anything led to this moment where Alexander, this boy, was pointing a gun towards him. Anger, disappointment, betrayal.

Anger; he could have killed the boy when he had the chance, could have had him hanged when the two other prisoners chose to kill each other than give up information. George could have left his body to rot hanging from a noose. But he didn't, he _couldn't_. The boy was young, hot-headed and he had had that lost, frightened look in his eyes when George told him that his fellow comrades were dead by their own choice. He had pitied the boy then, had tried to see it from his point of view. Of course Alexander would have thought George was lying from the way his face crumpled. _Am I going to die?_ The question had shocked George, who instantly told Alexander that he was not going to die; he was going to be treated for his broken leg and wound on his arm sustained from George's own gun. George had felt ashamed that most of the boy's injuries were inflicted by George himself. War was not a time to pity the enemy.

Disappointment; George had thought, had believed, _hoped_ , that maybe, just _maybe_ , the boy had actually _liked_ him, that he wasn't filled with hate and disgust for the General. George wasn't going to deny the fondness he felt for the boy, who he felt could amount to better things than staying a simple foot soldier in the British Army. George had even given him ink and paper, allowed him to sit at his desk, as he wrote, sharing his beliefs that slavery was a sin amongst men (George had pursed his lips at that as he remembered that he was one of those sinners) and there were many times when George had shared a drink with the boy - Alexander had made a face of disgust when he had tasted the whiskey George kept. The boy no longer seemed a prisoner, acting more as someone George could talk with, someone he could trust.

Betrayal; George felt the burn in his chest, as if someone was slowly and painfully burning their way through his chest. The lump in his throat was made up of words he couldn't say and nothing, not even the bullet that could pierce his skin at any given moment, could hurt more than what Alexander was doing. Alexander; the boy he had shared food with, had clothed, drank with, who he called - who he thought of as his _son_. Who was stubborn, big mouthed and hot headed. So easy to read, like an open book who never shut up. In another world, Alexander could have felt the same. George had hoped that maybe... maybe after the war was done, was won... that they... that  _he_...

Yet, here they were; Alexander holding the gun and George on the receiving end.

His mouth was dry as he parted his lips, trying to remember that he needed to be General Washington now, couldn't show any weakness. (He was caving in on the inside and it was getting harder to breathe.)

"Alexander..."

"Don't move," the boy snapped, his voice wobbling and a low whisper. His eyebrows were knitted together, eyes darting around. "Don't move, General." His finger tightened on the trigger.

George stood up straighter, keeping his eyes locked with Alexanders ( _ignore the gun, ignore your inevitable death should you fail_ ) and reached behind him to close the door, the gentle click sounding sharper and louder than any gunfire. His fingers fiddled gently with his hat, unconsciously showing his nervousness as he placed it on the surface of one of the chairs that were pushed up against the wall. All the while, George did not break eye contact with the boy, trying to make his actions slow so he would not spook him. Alexander still didn't pull the trigger; George could see that the boy was hesitating, restraining himself for once in his life. George was walking on thin ice; he needed to find the right amount of being authoritative and yet gentle enough to appeal to the boy.

George placed his hands behind his back, knotting his fingers as he tried to keep his heart from fluttering in his chest. Silence, waiting to be filled with either words or gunfire. "A poor choice of weapon; really, Alexander, I expected better."

The crease between Alexander's eyebrows got deeper, confusion washing over his face as his hand dropped a bit. All George needed to do was get closer and then... "You're... _insulting_ me?"

"Not you, no, just your choice," George replied, voice cool and calm that masked his nervousness. "Gun fire will attract attention. A knife would have been better; better yet, poison." George couldn't believe he was _actually_ throwing out ideas on how to _kill him_ to the boy who was pointing a _gun_ at him. And it seemed, Alexander couldn't believe it either. George was planting seeds of doubt in Alexander's mind, watching them bloom behind the boy's eyes.

"You - you're _complaining_ about what I chose to kill you with?" Disbelief and shock.

"Gunfire will attract sound and the place will be flooded with soldiers soon." It wasn't a lie; there were men outside the door and if they weren't careful and started shouting, then they would enter to see their General being held at gun point by a British soldier. It had only because Alexander had been in George's company unsupervised before that he had been allowed in without being suspected. Despite George's warning, Alexander didn't waver or drop the pistol; instead, if George were to think about it, his grip tightened and he stood up straighter.

George wondered how long the boy had been planning for this; since the day he was captured? Since he had gained George's trust? _When, when, when_ kept echoing in George's mind as he stared back at Alexander. The boy was thinner, paler with purple splattered beneath his eyes, telling George that Alexander had not been sleeping. In fact, if he were to reflect on it, the boy had begun to fade away slowly and quietly without anyone noticing, without _him_ realising it. How could George not have noticed? How could he not have seen the boy pushing food around his plate, how he didn't seem interested with arguing with Burr whenever the man decided to throw a snarky comment his way? How could he not have noticed the fact the boy was turning into a shell of his former self? He should have paid more attention, should have cared more, then maybe they wouldn't be here.

The air was thick with tension, making it hard to even breathe.

"It won't matter." Alexander's voice was void of any emotion. The calm before storm.

"They'll hang you, maybe shoot you if you're lucky," George continued, voice a soft whisper, trying to ignore the ache in his heart. Here he was, about to die and still caring more about his killer.

"Why do you care?" Alexander spat, the venom practically dripping off of his tongue. "I know what you're trying to do; you're trying to distract me."

It was working, not that Alexander needed to know what.

"No, son, I'm trying to stop you from doing something stupid."

Alexander's nostrils flared, the anger burning up in the boy, eating away everything within him as he clenched his jaw. A misstep, one that George cursed himself for. Damn that boy and his insufferable pride. The ice was cracking beneath George and he needed to either run or he would end up drowning.

"Don't call me stupid; I am _not_ stupid," the boy's voice was filled with fire and rage, cracking slightly from trying to restrain himself. He still had to pull the trigger. "You wouldn't understand - "

"I understand perfectly," George snapped back, clipped and cool. There was bitterness lingering on his tongue. "I only ask what made you decide to murder me." The word murder made them both flinch.

"I don't... I'm not - " the doubt was growing. All George had to do was encourage it.

"It's alright," George hushed, his foot edging forward and unwinding his hands so that he could slowly reach out and take the gun in his grip. Alexander was wavering and he seemed like a lost and confused child; George just had to guide down the right path, hoping that the trigger would be squeezed. "It's alright, son, just give me - "

The ice cracked again and the gun was back, aimed towards George's head; Alexander had a new spurt of courage and anger, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. His hand was still shaking. " _Don't call me that_. Don't step any closer, General, or I swear that I will not hesitate to shoot you." It felt as if the boy had already shot him. George let his face slip back into an unreadable mask, trying to stay afloat.

"You're making a mistake."

Alexander shook his head. "No, I'm not. You wouldn't understand; I have to do this."

There it was again, there was Alexander saying that George wouldn't understand. So help me to understand then, George wanted to say but bit the words back. George remembered how Burr would comment how Alexander never seemed to waste any time, being relentless in his actions. But here they were, both trying to find an end to the situation that neither liked to be in.

"You don't have to do anything, Alexander," George reasoned, keeping still and steady.

"I - I have to," Alexander repeated, stumbling over his words for the first time. "He said... he said it's the only way."

George felt his blood run cold at Alexander's words; a spy, there had to be a spy. Oh, God, who was it? Where was he? The British must have found a way to plant a spy amongst George's men. But there had not been any new members amongst his staff, not for many months. Dear God, was it someone he knew, someone he trusted? They had to have access to Alexander, had to have been able to talk to him. A horrible taste coated George's mouth as he felt knots tying themselves in his stomach; the world seemed so much crueller at that moment, mocking him for so easily trusting the boy, the very same boy who professed his loyalty to King and Country many a time.  _Foolish, I am foolish,_ George chided to himself. He had always been so easy to dote on children, to play the favourite; Alexander had reminded him so much of Jacky, reminded him just how stubborn and quick to anger he had been when he was younger.

What to do? Quiz Alexander further about the spy, which could result in someone walking in at any moment to see the gun pointed at the General or him dead? George had spent a long time trying to convince the others that Alexander was a smart boy, he wasn't going to go and shoot the leader of the rebel army. If someone were to see them now, George would be powerless, unable to protect Alexander from those who wanted him dead. Or should he continue down the rocky path and try to get the weapon out of the boy's hand, without being sure of it succeeding?

"It isn't the only way," George replied in a soft tone, like how he would speak to Patsy after she had a bad nightmare and needed comforting. "You have a choice, son, you always - "

" _I'm not your son!_ " Alexander spat out through gritted teeth. His voice was dangerously high and could attract unwanted attention. "You don't get it, do you?! This is my chance, my shot to - to finally be able to do something right. He said that it's the only way, that it's the only way I can go home. And I don't have a home; I'm not like you; I don't have any money, or - or any family who care for me but he said that if I do this I can go home."

The confusion was settling itself over George as he edged closer towards Alexander; as he got closer, only then could George see the whites of the boys eyes, see how frightened and tired he was. It was obvious the lack of sleep and stress was taking its toll on the boy's health; he was pale, cheeks stretched over his face with his lips cracked and pursed. His hair was a ratty mess, greasy curls sticking up everywhere. The boy must have had been in a long running conflict with himself to let himself waste away to nothing. 

"You can go home, Alexander," George soothed, stepping forward again. "You don't have to do this to do so." 

Alexander shook his head. "No, I... he told me doing this... it's the only I can go home... it's the only way I can make my father proud of me."

The words were like a bucket of cold water being dumped over his head. He had always thought, had been led to believe that the boy was without any family whatsoever. His accent wasn't English nor any that George had come to associate with Britain. Alexander had always avoided personal subjects whenever George had quizzed him in the beginning; he learned that trying to dig into Alexander's past would only result in the boy becoming more closed off. If he was patient, he would be rewarded. He learnt that the boy loved reading as much as he did writing, his study of the boy made him conclude that, indeed, Alexander was much younger than he said he was. The boy could speak French and was abysmal at chess.

Anger surged in George; how is it that men who acted more like monsters could father as many children as they liked without ever taking responsibility? Alexander looked like he was barely holding everything together, the string that kept him closed off was unravelling. He was only a boy being played by men at war. How starved was he that he would kill at his father's whim? George could only ignore the ache in his chest as he watched Alexander's bottom lip begin to wobble.  _Step forward and pray the ice doesn't break._

"Alexander, doing this... it'll only result in your death," George murmured. The gun was still directed at him and was wavering as was Alexander's resolve.

" _To die for one's country is the highest honour one can achieve,_ " Alexander instantly retorted, the words twisting and clean cut. A quote, obviously. From his father? George had no doubt about it. The man was using Alexander as a means to his own end, pulling the boy with empty promises that covered the truth. The man was sending his son to his death. The bile was making its way up George's throat and it took everything within him not to retch.

"No, Alexander, it isn't; you still have so much more to live for, so much to do," George told him. He was closer towards the boy now, if he just reached out... "He is using you, trying to get you to throw your own life away." A dangerous statement, one that could have spelt the end for George, only it didn't. 

Doubt was once again growing in the boy's mind and George could see his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "No, he - he wouldn't," Alexander tried, voice croaking. "You're  _lying_. If I do this - "

"If you do this, you will never go home," George finished. "If you do this, you will not make him proud; he is using you, Alexander."

The boy shook his head, curls bouncing around his head, as his breathing became more shallow and quick. "No, you're lying. He  _will_ be proud of me. I - I can finally be his son and I won't have to be called bastard anymore." 

_Ah._

Everything in the world made sense to George once again; how Alexander was the way he was, how he was starved for his father's affection. How he flinched at George's own affection. A boy who was a mistake in his father's eyes; no wonder how the man could so easily tell his son to throw his life away. It just made George hate the man even more. How much had the boy suffered? No family, no money, seeing the Army as the only way to survive; lost and unsure and the only person in his life he wanted to desperately to know was telling him to die.

"No, Alexander, if you do this, you'll die. And he knows that. You won't ever get to go home." 

The words were like a slap to Alexander, his face crumbling instantly as his eyes began to glisten from unshed tears; the unravelled string was loose and all George had to do was tug at it and then he would make it to dry and solid land, to leave behind the ice cracking beneath his feet. He stepped closer again, his hands slowly reaching up as the boy seemed unable to look into George's eyes anymore, choosing to focus his shocked attention onto the gun he held that was now pressed up against George's chest. George reached his hand up gently, encasing Alexander's trembling hand with his steady one, almost wanting to pry open Alexander's fingers that were wrapped around the trigger.

"Alexander, give me the gun," George's voice was naught but a whisper then, staring down at the boy who seemed locked in position, frozen and scared. For a brief moment, as nothing happened, George wondered if he would have to tear the pistol from Alexander's hand but then, the boy began to relinquish control of the weapon to George. He was hesitant, unblinking, his breathing short and bottom lip trembling. The gun was heavy and cold in George's grip but it felt like it was burning his skin as a breath he didn't know he was holding escaped him in relief. 

George turned away from Alexander, placing the pistol onto the surface of his desk, far away and out of reach from the boy. George was half tempted to throw the damned thing out the window; how did Alexander manage even to get a weapon when he was, technically, an enemy soldier and prisoner?

"I just... I just wanted..." Alexander's voice was broken, a whimper as he forced the words out. George turned back to the boy, noticing how the boy still had yet to move and break his unwavering gaze of the spot on the wall; he seemed shrunken, as if he wished to be smaller so that he would be unseen. George placed himself back in front of Alexander, watching as the boy refused to blink, as if scared that a tear might fall, and he was struggled to keep his breathing even. George reached a hand up, gently on Alexander's shoulder to get his attention.

"It's alright, son."

The string came lose and an ocean burst forth.

After the first tear came, it seemed there was no end. The boy began to heave, as if his lungs could not get enough air, that he was drowning in his tears that were overflowing, waves cutting off his oxygen supply. His knees buckled and George caught him, bringing the boy to his chest. A sob broke through Alexander's mouth as George wrapped his arms around him; Alexander seemed to struggle to hold himself up, as if all the burdens he had on his shoulders were finally too much to bear. Alexander's thin arms wrapped around George, fingers gripped into the General's coat as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat as wave after wave burst forth. George brought his hand to Alexander's head, smoothing down the nest of curls, trying to hush the sobs that left Alexander. It was muscle memory; he would have had to have done it should Jacky or Patsy fall and scrape their knees. The tears were beginning to stain George's shirt but he couldn't find it within him to really care.

The warmth of Alexander's breath was seeping in through the strands and the boy was mumbling nonsense through sobs.  _I'm sorry_ and  _why couldn't you have been my -_ left hanging in the air as George tried to soothe the boy; the gun was left forgotten and George could only focus on the fact that he had managed to get through to the boy and that Alexander was here, _safe_ and  _alive_. The boy clung to him just as George clung to him, gentle hushing noises leaving him to soothe the boy. The ache in George's chest didn't subside, and he felt like it never would as long as Alexander suffered. The boy could be his own just as much as Patsy and Jacky were. 

His chin rested on the boy's head, words of unheard comfort spilling past the tip of his tongue as the boy continued to break.  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't want to die, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ All was forgiven the moment the first sorry had slipped past Alexander's lips; George tried not to think about what would have happened had anyone else stumbled in on them a few minutes ago, or even now. George simply kept brushing the stubborn brown curls behind Alexander's ear.

_It will be alright. You will not die for them, I promise._

"I - I'm sorry, I am so sorry," Alexander kept repeating through choked sobs. George pressed his lips against the boy's temple, the taste of salt lingering.

"I forgive you."

_I won't let anything happen to you, not now, not ever._

**Author's Note:**

> u can tell where i ran out of steam maybe i'll write more at a later date but who knows??!!! not me!!!!!!!!
> 
> also, this one shot was inspired by appellation by talriconosco (check it out yo)


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